Say we’d met on those steps a decade ago, on the stones worn thin by centuries of other lovers who measured their stories against the myths carved into the marble of the Acropolis, who ignored the warnings of hubris that had made legends of the men and women who tried to defy their fate. Say we’d met on the streets of your rain-slicked city, beneath the statue of Greyfriars Bobby, and you’d taken my hand and told me the tale of the dutiful dog who died guarding the grave of the man he loved, as you showed me the city that schooled you. Say we’d walked the canals, passed the painted houses with their tulips cascading from the windows with the promise of perpetual spring, and we’d smiled at the students getting legally high, knowing that no drug could ever make them feel the way we did. Say we’d met here in this city that never sleeps and we’d chosen to walk the streets all night, rather than it choosing it for us, because it was the only way we could be together. Say we had met at another time, in another place. Would you still come and lie flowers on my grave, your grey coat pulled high to hide your face from the wind or those wondering who you were and what you were doing here?
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